Episode IV
by Supernoodle
Summary: He thinks they are just neighbours, she tries her hardest to remember that he's not just the nice guy who carried her groceries when the elevator broke down. It's her job to keep him safe, and one night, after Steve's had a particularly rough week, she gets the chance. An angsty, fluffy little Steve Vs. The 21st Century one-shot set somewhere between Avengers Assemble and TWS.


**_I've always loved Marvel, have always loved the angst they manage to pack into their characters, and since seeing Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve Rogers has become my number one angst muse. It doesn't hurt that he's played by the magically delicious Chris Evans. So anyhoo, this is a silly little H/C heavy, mostly plotless little snippet set somewhere in between Avengers Assemble and The Winter Soldier. Hope you enjoy it._**

**_Supernoodle,_**

**_13th May 2014_**

* * *

**Episode IV**

**-O-**

I'm watching and old re-run of _Diagnosis Murder_ when I hear the crash from next door. I've tried many times to convince myself that watching Dick Van Dyke chew the scenery is research to help with my cover - I'm supposed to be a nurse after all, I have the scrubs and everything to help prove it - but really, I'm just a sucker for cheesy old TV. It's not just _Diagnosis Murder_ either, I'll happily watch _Murder She Wrote, Colombo, Quincy. B_ut my bad taste in TV is another story; the huge crash from next door is the important thing.

My immediate reaction is to grab the gun that is sitting beside me on the arm of the sofa alongside the inch thick report that I'm meant to be reading, and run next door to his apartment, but that would mean blowing my cover, and then I would be of no use to anyone whatsoever. Switching off the TV, I grab the gun anyway and tiptoe over to the adjoining wall of our apartments, holding my breath so that the only sounds I can hear are the electric hum of the fridge nearby and my own heart pounding in my chest, and I wait.

He might be a bona-fide, All-American Superhero, S.H.I.E.L.D's most steadfast weapon, but at the moment, he's just a guy at home, alone and off guard and he's my charge. It's my job to protect him, and it's a job I take job very seriously.

I let out the breath I've been holding and press my ear to the wall. There's no sound of a struggle, no footsteps or unfamiliar voices, but that doesn't make me feel much better. My mind races through a million different scenarios anyway. I don't know just how super Steve is, that's level 10 classified and I'm only a level 5, but I'm pretty sure a bullet to the head would send even him crashing to the floor of his apartment.

_Please be okay please be okay please be okay_ I murmur under my breath and just as I've decided to blow my cover and burst into his apartment, all guns a blazing, I hear Steve curse loudly and I sigh with relief. No bullet to the head then. Everything else can be fixed.

I head down my hallway, stopping to take a quick peep at myself in the big ornately framed mirror that hangs above the radiator. This isn't driven by vanity, not entirely anyway, but I need to make sure I look like a concerned neighbour. I need to make sure there's nothing about me that would suggest Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Satisfied that I just look like a regular girl, a regular girl who could be called Kate who works in the hospital taking care of sick children, not a slightly sleep deprived undercover bodyguard who may or may not have a crush on the guy she was meant to be protecting.

Maybe I shouldn't have those types of thoughts, seeing as it's my job to keep Steve safe, to look after him like the asset that he is, but there's no getting away from the fact that he's a very good looking guy. You don't need level 10 clearance to know that. He's also a really _nice_ guy, and in my experience, really good looking and really nice is not a common combination. Tucking the pistol down the back of my jeans, making sure its covered properly by the hem of my long jumper I unlock my door and head out into the communal hallway.

There's only the two apartments on this floor of the building. Another S.H.I.E.L.D manipulation no doubt. I think they want him to have the illusion of freedom, but he's watched nearly everywhere he goes I sometimes wonder if when he enlisted, when he chose to give his life to protect his nation, he still would have volunteered so readily had he known it would be for the next seventy years? I for one don't care where he goes, as long as he's safe. I take a deep breath and knock on his door.

There's no reply for what seems like forever my hand automatically edges back towards my gun, but then the door opens and he's standing there, looking ridiculously dashing for a man dressed in a pair of grey sweats and a T-Shirt.

"Hi." He says.

"Hi" I reply, trying hard to keep my eyes on his face rather than the way his t-shirt is stretched rather becomingly over his chest, but that doesn't really help things much because now I'm looking into his big blue eyes and I feel myself start to blush. "Sorry to knock so late, but I heard a crash... I just wanted to make sure you were okay?" And that's when I notice the bloody towel wrapped around his arm.

He glances down at the towel, we can both see blood seeping through and his cheeks flush with colour. "It's just a scratch. I had a bit of a thing with the screen doodad on the wall." He replies, shrugging. "It's sort of not on the wall anymore. Sorry if I woke you up."

I smile at him, shake my head and tell him not to be silly, that he didn't wake me, that I just wanted to make sure he was okay but I can't tear my eyes off the bloody towel – it's not just slightly blood-stained, it's completely soaked through, so much so that's it's now dripping on the wood floor. "That's more than a scratch, Steve." I tell him. "Put pressure on it." And I grab his other hand and press it against where I approximate the wound to be, suddenly very aware that this is the first time I've ever touched him. "You need to let me take a look at that."

Steve looks up from my hand, embarrassment written all across his face and he nods, stepping back to let me in to his apartment. I've been in here a few times before he moved in, and once just after for a quick recon, disguised as a neighbourly coffee, so I know where his bathroom is and I push him towards it, passing the huge glass entertainment screen that's now in pieces on the floor of his lounge. I never hear the sound of TV coming from his apartment, I never hear him watching movies, all I hear ever hear are his records, playing old time music that fills me with nostalgia even though it was from a time long before I was born. It makes me kind of sad when I hear him playing the same crackly old records over and over. Makes me wonder how out of place he must feel. How alone.

I nod at the tub and he sits obediently on the edge as I switch on the overhead light and the shaving light so I can get a good look at the damage. I might only be playing nurse, but one of the reasons I was picked for this job, apart from the obvious one, was my medical training. I really hoped I would never have to use it.

"What have you done to yourself, huh?" I say, kneeling down in front of him, realising that I've kind of gone into agent mode, rather than concerned nurse and I look up into his face, wondering if I've given anything away. He's smiling at me, rather indulgently, but I can also see a slight sheen of sweat on his brow and it might just be the harsh fluorescent lighting, but he looks a little pale. Now that I'm close, I also see the dark rings under his eyes, the ghost of a bruise that sits on his jaw, and tiredness radiates from him, making him seem older than his twenty-five years. Looking back at his arm I lift his hand away and carefully lift the towel.

A massive gout of blood immediately pumps up out of the curved slice that runs from the crook of his elbow and halfway down to his wrist and I can't help but wince at the sight of it. Grabbing another towel off the towel rail next to the bath, I fold it over and replace the now soaked rag which I throw into the tub with the two others that are in there already, and get to my feet.

"Stay there." I tell him. "I'm going to call an ambulance." And I dig my hands into the pockets of my jeans, feeling for my phone, but it isn't there. It's sitting on top of the report that I was meant to be reading in my apartment. "Where's your phone?"

Steve shakes his head and takes hold of my wildly gesturing arm gently by the wrist. "Kate, you know who I am, right?"

I nod in reply, everyone knows who he is. That's kind of the point of Captain America. I don't really know the man all the other agents call Cap though, I only know Steve Rogers. My neighbour. The nice guy who carried my shopping upstairs for me when the elevator broke. The guy who plays gramophone records instead of gangsta rap and looks kind of sad every time he thinks no-one is watching.

"I don't need an ambulance. I'm not going to be bleeding to death any time soon, I promise… I heal quickly."

He looks up at me with his big baby blues and smiles as reassuringly as he can, and I feel myself start to melt. All the other female agents seem to agree that Thor is the dreamy one, but I beg to differ. I'm not sure Thor would take the trouble to carry a girl's groceries up three flights of stairs with only a cup of coffee as a reward. I'm not entirely won over by his protestations though.

"I don't know, Steve… That's a really bad cut. _Really bad._ I think you've nicked a vein. You need stitches, a tetanus shot, maybe some fluids…"

Steve smiles. "I promise you I don't need a tetanus shot. As for the other two, you're a nurse and I'm sure you owe me a cup of coffee. That is, if you're not too busy?"

I smile despite myself. Politeness. Now there's something that needs to come back into style. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, he replies.

"Fine." I tell him and I gesture towards my apartment. "I'll go get my first aid kit, you stay still and I'll be back in a jiffy."

"I'll be here." He replies.

**-O-**

Fifteen minutes later and I'm sitting at Steve's dining room table with the contents of my hefty first aid kit spread out before me. I had a bit of a panic when I got the kit out from under the sink, thinking that it would have S.H.I.E.L.D branding all over it, but a quick but thorough look through revealed nothing more telling than generic hospital supplies, bandages, dressing, all stuff which a nurse could easily have pilfered from her hospital.

Steve has his arm stretched out on a wad of towels in front of me, a hint of a smile on his lips and he's watching me as I work, sipping the bottle of Gatorade I brought him from my fridge. To my surprise, the wound has already mostly stopped bleeding and seems a lot shallower than I first thought and I decide that it probably can do without stiches, which is good, because I'm not sure my first aid skills are quite up to that. I settle on dousing it with disinfectant and get to applying a whole load of steri-strips which Steve watches me apply with seeming amusement.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Am _I_ okay?" I laugh. "I should be asking you that."

He looks up at me, smiling. "It's just that you seem kind of nervous."

I can feel myself beginning to blush and I look away from his face and try to concentrate on the task in hand. But now my hands are shaking and I give up and sit in the chair opposite him. "You know what this feels like?"

"Well, yes. It's my arm…"

"Thank you, Captain Obvious." I reply.

"It's America… Captain _America_." He replies and I stop for a moment and try to figure out if he's being serious or if he's as dry as his case-file suggests. I settle on the latter.

"What I mean is, me patching _you_ up, I guess it's like how an art restorer must feel when he cleans the Mona Lisa."

"Mona Lisa, huh? I actually see myself more of a Michelangelo's David..."

"You're a funny guy, you know that?" I tell him, but now I'm smiling again. I've always been kind of nervous around the elites, I guess the same way I would be if I got to interact with Rock Stars or Hollywood A-Listers - he's a real life Superhero after all, but right now, he's just my neighbour, just a regular guy, and I feel the tension falling away. "How long will it take for this to heal?"

He peers at the cut, gives it an experimental poke and shrugs. "Maybe a couple of days before it closes up properly. In a week or so there probably won't even be a scar."

"And it doesn't hurt?" I ask.

Steve shrugs. "I wouldn't say it doesn't hurt, it's just that I can tolerate pain much better that I used to. Higher pain threshold, which is handy because painkillers don't really work that well on me anymore."

This thought makes me feel slightly nauseous. I've tried hard not to stare at Steve, but it's hard not to notice the bruises on his arms, the scrapes across his knuckles, the way he's sitting, guarding his ribs. He's not often home - they have him away on ops more often than not, but he's been in his apartment for almost a whole week now and I wonder if they've send him home to recover for a few days after something gone bad. This would also correlate with my SO's instructions to be extra vigilant and I make an effort to be more gentle with my ministrations. Getting to my feet again, I start rummaging through the bandages spread out on the table until I find a dressing big enough to cover the whole injury. Opening the packet, I place it gently over the huge cut, then begin to wrap a pressure bandage around his arm. There's a little crease of a frown on his forehead and he sucks in a quick hiss of breath as I bandage over the deepest part and I apologise and tell him that it has to be tight.

"How did you manage to do this anyway?"

Steve's quiet for a moment, and then he looks up at me a little sheepishly. "I never use that screen thingamabob they put on my wall. They thought I'd love it, they couldn't wait to show me what it does – but the shows, they're too loud, everyone just shouts, everything seems to be on repeat – I don't really understand most of it. I'd sooner just listen to my records, or the wireless, or just read a book. I have a lot of reading to catch up on."

"King." I tell him. "Get yourself some Stephen King books. You won't be sorry. Unless you prefer something a little happier…"

"Stephen King." He repeats, "I'll try to remember. I have a little book to write things down in that people recommend to me. That's kind of how this happened."

"This is a paper cut?" I ask and this time, I get the withering look.

"Now who's funny?…"

I tape up the end of the bandage, check for any blood soaking through, and satisfied that I've done the best job that I can with my limited supplies, I sit back down opposite him. "I'm sorry, go on – you have a little book?..."

Steve nods in the direction of the coffee table and I see a little notebook with a pencil lying on top. It's pocket sized. Perfect for carrying around in the back pocket of your jeans. "Tony Stark gave it to me, he said it would help me get with the program. Although I don't really know what he meant by that. He also told me I should watch something called _Star War_s, so that's what I was trying to do… Only I couldn't get the idiotic thing to work, it kept coming up with this little green circle going round and round and I guess… I guess I lost my temper a little bit. I kind of pulled it off the wall."

I can't help but laugh, and I see his face fall and I immediately feel bad. "I'm sorry, Steve. I'm not laughing _at_ you, I promise."

"No?"

"No." I reply, "It's just funny what happens with slow broadband at the hand of a superhero. First World problems and all that…"

He still looks bemused so I try to wipe the smile off my face. "So _Star Wars,_ huh?"

Steve nods. "Tony Stark said I had to watch it before our next mission otherwise he wasn't going to be able to talk to me anymore."

"Tony Stark sounds like a bit of a jerk." I reply and Steve says nothing, but a small smile spreads across his face. He surveys my handiwork and looks up at me. "Thanks for this, Kate. I appreciate it."

"What are neighbours are for?" I reply. "Now, how about that coffee?"

Steve pushes his chair back and begins to get to his feet and I realise that he's about to get up and make the drinks and I push him back down to his seat. "You, sit still and drink your Gatorade. You've lost a lot of blood and I don't want you to undo all my hard work… I'll make the coffee." Then a silly thought crosses my mind.

"I have_ Star Wars_. I have all of them on Blu-Ray." I call out from the kitchen as I wait for the coffee to brew, peeking through Steve's kitchen cupboards for mugs and spoons. "You could come over some time and watch it - my TV is still in one piece."

Steve appears in the doorway, cradling his arm against his chest and he nods his head towards the cupboard that I need. "There's more than one of them?"

"Yeah, and just to complicate things, you need to start Episode four."

Steve looks confused again, but not just confused, for a moment, he looks completely and utterly bereft and something inside me gives a painful little twist.

Then I realised what an idiot I'm being.

I can't be friends with Steve Rogers, I can't get close to him. He's my assignment, my charge - He's Captain Freakin' America, a national treasure - and if I forget this, even for a moment, I put us both at risk. Making a show of looking at my watch and yawning, I try not to look at him, because looking at him standing in the doorway to his own kitchen, looking so utterly lost, is breaking my heart. "You know, it's pretty late. I have an early shift at the hospital, I - I should go."

"Oh, " he replies. "Sure thing. Maybe we could watch_ Star War_s another night? If you aren't busy... I promise not to bleed all over you next time."

"Steve, I - I don't think that's a good idea."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, then he takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry about all this, Kate."

"Don't be sorry, Steve. Don't ever be sorry." I tell him, and now I do look at him. I look him dead in the eye because this might be the only time I ever get to speak to him this way. "You asked me a little while ago if I knew who you were – well believe me, I do. I know. I know what Captain America did during the war, what Captain America did in New York... What he's still doing. Captain America has saved so many people, he's given so much…" Stepping forwards I go up on my tip toes and kiss him on the cheek. "But there's people who know what Steve Rogers has given too, so please don't ever say sorry. Not to me. Not to anyone, okay?"

Before he can say anything in reply I'm back at the table, shoving the unused medical supplies back in the box and without looking back, I head home to my apartment.

**-O-**

Two days later I come home to find a pot plant sitting on my door step, on it hangs a note that just says _Thank You_. I know Steve is not home, he's off on another mission and won't be back for another three days. I press my lips to the card, and closing my eyes, I send a wish out into the universe that he stays safe.

**-O-**

Three days after finding the plant on my doorstep, I come out of the shower to hear the faint but unmistakable strains of a John Williams theme coming through the wall and I smile and hope he's watching the right film.

**-O-**

The next morning there's a knock on my door and when I answer, Steve is standing there holding two large Starbucks cups. "I still owe you a coffee." He tells me, and the expression on his face tells me that this fact is not open to discussion. "One's something called a Latte, the other one is a gingerbread-something or other. You can have whichever one you like, but you need to explain to me what the hell Jar Jar Binks is all about."

I smile at him and take the latte, stepping back into my hallway to let him in. "Episode Four, Steve. Didn't I tell you that you needed to start with Episode Four?"


End file.
